


The Gift of Life is Thine

by DragonBandit



Category: Homestuck
Genre: But possibly not the trolls, Everyone Is Alive, Humanstuck, I believe that is all of them, Including some who really shouldn't, M/M, Post SBURB, Robot Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBandit/pseuds/DragonBandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THIS IS ABANDONED</p><p>When the world is remade, Brobot does not expect to have a part in its existence. The game had other ideas.</p><p>Wherein Brobot is a real boy, much to his confusion and general annoyance, Sawtooth is best Bro, humans are confusing and so are human conventions, there are too many Striders for the apartment and Hal is in a coma.<br/>Somehow, this is the story of how Brobot becomes real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now Beta read, thanks to diachronicchthonian  
> (I don't know how to link here...)  
> This is going to be long, and slow building. Also the author is asexual and has no real interest in writing graphic sex scenes. Sorry about that.

When the announcement that they had won the game reached Brobot he had held his katana in loose fingers and looked up to the sky. He had stared impassively as around him teenagers in brightly colored and impractical pajamas got ready to open the red door marking the end of existence as they had known it.

None of them had so much as glanced at him. An expected outcome: Brobot was just another detail; about as worthy as the wallpaper on a bedroom, or an old sword no longer useful. He was not a necessary part of the game. He was, at the very base of the matter, expendable.

Hal- no, ARquiusprite had spared him a moment. In the way that the conglomeration of Hal and whatever the troll's name had been looked at anyone who wasn't Dirk. Even when combined with someone Hal was all too focused on his creator.

Brobot had preferred Hal when he wasn't over acting the part of perverted sprite mess. Not that it mattered what Brobot thought. He was going to be dead soon anyway. They all were; the pieces of Dirk that had been given their own life and thoughts. Brobot held no illusions that the game would allow a splinter to live. Winners were meant to be whole, after all.

He had left quietly, forgotten, back to Jake's planet. It wasn't the thick forests of the island but it would do. Brobot closed his eyes. Powered down. Waited to re absorb with Dirk when he stepped through the door.

Died.

* * *

 Waking up on the rooftop of an apartment building had not been in his plans. Neither was doubling over as his body failed underneath him, strong arms grabbing him before his head hit the concrete and a voice telling him to “Fucking breathe, dammit!”

 Someone forces his mouth open, seals lips against his and teaches lungs how to inflate and deflate.

Except Brobot does not have a mouth, nor lungs. Nor does he have any reason to breathe. When he is taking in shuddering breaths until his chest no longer hurts for unknown reasons, Brobot takes in his surroundings as best he can while still pressed to someone else’s chest.

There are five people that he can see. All of them varying degrees of blond and wearing various styles of shades. Striders, Brobot determines. He recognizes four:  Bro, Dirk and two versions of Dave. The other escapes him, though he looks familiar. Like he's looking through a mirror, or faulty optics.

They are all talking over one another. Words and phrases and expressions that tug at Brobot's threat sensors until they're strung into ribbons. Dave seems to be in charge, the one with blond hair, as opposed to orange. Judging by his movements, he's attempting to explain but isn't sure what happened himself.

“Looks like the game took every Strider or Striderlike thing and shit them all out onto our now-shared apartment,” Blond Dave says. “Dibs I get the original room.”

Orange Dave rolls his eyes upwards, a dramatic movement that requires his entire head. “In other words if you thought you were alive the game kept you alive. Including certain people who were only alive through dream bubbles and that weird half second where Crocker rezzed the entire universe.” At this he indicates the elder men, and then a pointed thumb at himself, “Alternate doomed timelines included.”

“And splinter selves,” Dirk cuts in, and Brobot realizes that his shades are pointed directly at whoever is holding Brobot. Brobot follows the gaze, up into an impassive face that nods back at Dirk.

The face is angular, narrow eyes and too sharp nose. If there were rivets on the cheeks Brobot would think-

“Sawtooth?” He tries to say, but he chokes on the name and it comes out a garbled mess. When he tries again, he's aware of the silence from every other person on the roof. It comes out better, still garbled but coherent enough from the smile stretching the man's face.

Got it in one, Lil' Bro.” Sawtooth says. “Think you can stand now?”

Brobot nods, letting himself be positioned by large hands covered in black gloves. Even when his balance is stable one of the hands remains at his shoulder. Firm but light, more reassurance than insurance if he does fall again. Brobot isn't sure what to think of that. On his other side a man who must be Squarewave hovers. He's even wearing the hat.

“What happened?” Why am I not dead, he doesn't add. Why do I need to breathe, why are you human? Too many questions filled into not enough words. If Hal was here he would be laughing, equal parts at Brobot's inability to communicate and the absurdity of the situation. Which is another question, when Brobot thinks about it.

“We won,” Dirk answers. Behind him the Daves are chattering at each other, identical phones out, balanced between identical hands. “Apparently your reward was becoming a real boy.”

It's then that the pieces click together. That the reason he needs to breathe is because he has a body that requires oxygen. When he looks down at his hands they are flesh toned, tan and calloused.  He should not be flesh toned. What did the game do to him?

“It made you human,” Sawtooth answers the unspoken question. “It made all of us human.” His hand rubs gentle circles into Brobot's shoulder. Brobot's head shakes, fingers splayed to be examined in excruciating detail. Data gathering.

“Who is he?” Bro, wearing a hat and pointy shades, says. “I wasn't aware that there were enough Striders to fill a minibus. Even with Scratch shenanigans there should only be four of us.”

“Five,” The Dave's say in unison. “Five Striders except Dirk likes horcruxing his soul in half to fuel the machines he likes to pretend are friends.”

Brobot would be offended, if it weren't for the fact it was true.

“That's Brobot,” Dirk says “I didn't know this was how the game would react to my creations."

“Brobot?” Triangle shades, which must make him Beta, Bro asks.

“I didn't name him. That was Jake's job.” Dirk says with a huff. Brobot watches his creator, and follows his gaze as it flicks to everyone except the Bro in the corner wearing the suit and aviator sunglasses with gold frames: Dirk's Bro.

Dirk's Bro who stands on the outskirts and hasn't said anything after that first argument of where they were while Brobot was navigating the user manual for lungs.

Another discussion happens around him. Of how all of this could have happened and how are they going to share the one room apartment between the eight of them. And who the apartment belongs to. Where this new reality measures up to the old ones and other things that have no answers and only make them walk in increasingly metaphorical circles.

Brobot catalogs them: Dave and what must be Davesprite from the way he keeps throwing out obscure game knowledge as fact. Dirk, Bro and other Bro. Brobot is going to have to find a better way to differentiate between them. Sawtooth, Squarewave and himself. If all iterations of Strider are meant to be here then:

“Where is Hal?” He asks, and once again silence falls.

Dirk is the first to recover. “Most likely shacking up with his alien boyfriend,” he dismisses, “fawning over how their muscles have quadrupled now that they both have bodies to annoy me with.”

Brobot's head tilts, a bad idea, from the low pounding that starts at the base of his head.

“That isn't Hal.” He says, and tries to work out why Dirk of all people can have a corrupted view of his former auto-responder. Though the utterance has merit, slightly. Even when hidden in negative tones and standoffish body language.

“Could have fooled me,” Dirk says, he turns to the Daves; still conferring in hushed tones. “Do either of you know the troll with the broken horn and annoying muscles?”

“Yeah,” Dave the original shrugs, “though more like a friend of a friend of a friend is quadrangled to him and he trolled me once. I got the connections.”

“Great. Pester him to get Hal to contact me.”

“Hal being?” Beta Bro queries and he looks up at the cluster of Brobot and the other former robots. “Another splinter self? A hidden sibling? Your long lost boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Dirk says, “I don't know why you're so anxious to include him in the circle jerk,” He directs at Brobot “All he'd do is make this even more irritating than it already is.”

For you, perhaps. Brobot doesn't say. He'd prefer Hal to be where Brobot can see him, as opposed to an unknown variable not accounted for. Unknowns are what trip you up when running from lusii, or tearing out your own heart because you were asked to.

“If I can see him he's less likely to cause trouble,” Brobot says instead, even though it relates more to Jake than Hal. If he wanted to, Hal could destroy the world with an internet connection and fifteen minutes. The fact that he was visible wouldn't make a difference in the amount of havoc that would ensue.

The lie passes though; Dirk jerks his head in a nod. Brobot is ignored again, passed over as nothing more than scenery dressing. A normal occurrence: something he finds almost comforting. Less comforting is the knowledge that Dirk obviously has no idea who Hal is.

Suddenly a lot more of Hal's rants make sense.

“Let's at least go somewhere that won't make half of us die of heatstroke,” Bro the Beta says, opening the door that leads to the stairs. “Let's see whose garbage made it into apartment 2.0.”

“3.0,” Davesprite follows “2.0 would be Dirk's pad. Or maybe Alpha Bro's. So this is what, 4.0?”

“As long as there's apple juice, I don't care which number it is,” Dave declares. His phone is still balanced between his hands and he taps messages into it occasionally.

The rest of them follow down the winding stairs, mostly in silence save for Squarewave's mumblings of confusion and excitement. Brobot and Sawtooth are the only ones close enough to hear the broken rhymed verse.

Navigating stairs is difficult: controlled falling on one leg and then switching to the other. Sawtooth keeps a hold on his shoulder. It's the only thing that stops Brobot from pitching forward to land on his nose. There had been no stairs to navigate on the island. Especially considering going through windows was the more ironic, and therefore appropriate, method to travel.

“How come you have no difficulty?” he mutters, hopefully inaudibly to the humans already entering the apartment.

“I do,” Sawtooth says. When Brobot looks up, he points his chin down at the railing. Where Sawtooth's hand is white-knuckled with the force he is exerting on the metal. “The trick is to look like you're functional. Eventually it will be the truth, and no one will know the difference. Listen to the rhythm of our walk: it's not as natural as it should be. But because I do not ask for help or show that I am in trouble, I might as well be the best stair climber in the world.”

Before Brobot can answer, Sawtooth pushes him through the door of the apartment. He stumbles slightly, but no one notices, except possibly Dirk's Bro.  He still has yet to say a word to anyone; even more invisible than Brobot himself.

The apartment is... empty, Brobot thinks; accustomed to Jake's mess of disarrayed DVDs and plant life encroaching from every nook and cranny of falling apart brickwork. Here there is a futon in one corner, a kitchen in the other. A TV next to the futon, a door leading to other rooms.

“A blank slate,” Dave the original observes “That's going to be a goddamn pain when I want to change out of godtierhood.”

“Least the godtier makes sense,” Dave the sprite points out “I'm still trying to work out why the game gave me a wizard robe to cover my dick with.”

“Obviously it thinks you're a girl.” Dave the original says.

“Oh no. How will I ever recover from such a vast insult to my masculinity. Oh, I know: by realizing that you in essence insulted yourself.”

“That is just creepy,” Beta Bro observes. He smirks as both Daves look at him in unison, eyebrow raised. “You do know you mirror each other, right?”

Together, the Daves turn smirks into blank smiles, “We are the creepy twins of your fantasies,” They say, deadpan and sing-song at the same time. “Better get a video camera and capture this rare sight before one of us fucks up and becomes his own bona fide person again.”

“Can't, apartment's been reset and I don't carry cameras on me at all times.”

“That's dumb of you,” Davesprite says, “Don't you know to carry at least five of your most important devices on you at all times?”

“I do now.”

Davesprite does something Brobot can only describe as preening: A ruffle of his shoulder blades and minute twitching in his neck muscles. A side affect from being fused with a bird, Brobot assumes. He tries not to think what that will mean for Hal, if anything bleed over from his time as ARquiusprite or not.

“Has the troll contacted you?” Brobot asks. For his trouble he gets a shake of Dave's head. Something hard and dark curls in the pit of Brobot's stomach. A stone weighing him down.

“Forget about it,” Dirk orders, “We have more important things to worry about."

“Like what?” Dave asks.

“Like what the hell this universe is,” Dirk retaliates.

“We won, this is our reward.” Dave shrugs, “Were you paying any attention at all to Karkat's bi-hourly rant on the endgame reward and how none of us were worthy of it?”

“Obviously more than you. If you weren't aware most of those rants are about how we will be gods and the new universe will be our plaything. Look around; I don't feel any different from when we were in the middle the game. If anything, I feel weaker. But that might just be a side effect of still missing bits of my soul. I wouldn't know.”

“Dirk. How much did you want to be a god.” Davesprite asks, very slowly, shoulders hunching together.

“What would that have to do with it?”

“A lot, considering that our session had a fully realized page of hope that had a version of you guiding his actions at the very end of the game.” Davesprite glances down at his phone, “In fact, it could be argued that whatever this universe is: it's what Jake thought you wanted it to be. Plus contributions from the rest of us of course, but primarily Jake's wishes and by extension yours.”

Surprisingly, it is Alpha Bro who answers first. “That makes a hell of a lot of sense.” His voice is dead, even for a Strider in full shutdown mode.

“And that means?” Beta Bro asks.

Alpha Bro merely shakes his head. “It doesn't matter. Doubt you would understand anyway. More importantly, I don't know about the rest of you but I could murder a pizza right about now.”

He's met with a chorus of nods from everyone in the room. Even Squarewave looks interested in the idea of sustenance. A debate occurs, as to where to acquire the pizza, and which toppings to get, as well as the side musings of the existence of pizza in this new universe.

Brobot does not engage. Frankly the thought of food makes him feel slightly nauseous. He hasn't ever eaten before. He's not sure he wants to start now. Not that he has the option to abstain; bodies unfortunately don't work like that.

Hal had missed eating, he had said. Had filled pages and pages with descriptions of favorite foods and drinks in the chatlogs between Brobot and himself. He'd even tried to use comparisons that Brobot would understand. How ice cream was the winter air on top of the mountain, hot chocolate the safety of a cave cleared of monsters for the night. Brobot hadn't understood in full. He doesn't feel things, can't understand the metaphors that are integral to a Strider without time to decode the nonsense phrases. He had listened anyway; storing the information away in the folder created specifically for Hal. Maybe it would have become useful someday.

Maybe it will be now. If Hal is in the same predicament that the rest of them are.

Somewhere between the Daves hijacking each other's phones and the order being made, Brobot leaves the main room of the apartment. Not for any particular reason. Except that the back of his head is whispering about threat assessments and what happens if there is an axe murderer hiding in the showers. It's at this point he realizes that Jake has had more influence on him than he had originally thought.

Leaving the bathroom, his eyes catch on the mirror. He ends up staring for what feels like an age at a foreign face that masquerades as his own. He has freckles. Where rivets used to hold his face together there are blotches of brown/orange circles running down his cheeks. Sharp cheekbones and angular jaw in the same form as Dirk's. The same way he used to have. A little more like Sawtooth than Dirk himself though, Brobot thinks as he tilts his head from side to side. Grey hair, as opposed to the varying shades of blond everyone else seems to sport. Under the light of the bathroom it could almost be termed silver.

Orange shades cover his eyes. He hadn't even realized the tint they gave to the world until they were carefully balanced between long fingers. His eyes are green. Or maybe blue, depending on which way the light hits them. Incongruous compared to the oranges and reds he knows the rest of his... family he supposes, has.

There is blood on the edge of the sink.

For a long moment Brobot examines the splotch of color on the otherwise pristine surface. Then he very carefully exits the bathroom and re-enters the main room. Autopilot controlling his feet, he moves to a vantage point where everyone is within his sight. Except Sawtooth, who defies explanation in the way he manages to shift out of Brobot's peripheral vision and into the shadows.

“Is anyone injured?” he inquires. Casting his eyes over all of them he can see nothing visible. The game remade them intact it seems. He's met with blank stares and a shaking of heads from all parties. A few raised eyebrows but Brobot doesn't have time to explain.

If no one is bleeding, then who does the blood belong to?

Now he is looking for it, he can find the minuscule amounts of red spotted on the white carpeting. From the door, through the main room, to the hall, bathroom sink. Then back again to the bedroom door.

Behind him Davesprite shadows. He's light footed in a way that Brobot can't work out is a fault of not having the amount of sensors he's used to due to being suddenly human or Davesprites natural ability to defy gravity left over from his days of floating.

The bedroom is just as stark as the main rooms; containing only the bed that both universes must have shared and an empty desk. The bed is not nearly as empty. Davesprite curses lowly under his breath, hovering a hand over the body bleeding onto once white sheets.

“Is this who I think it is?” Davesprite asks.

Brobot can only nod, his already small pool of words dried up in the face of the knowledge he was right.

He has to stop himself before he touches, harms, the boy. Brobot is built for hurting; he can't forget that fact just because he is made of flesh and bone instead of unyielding metal. Davesprite has no such issues: carding fingers through white hair to bring more features, and injuries into view.

Blood. Everywhere Brobot looks there is a new injury leaking red. Ears, eyes, nose, the hem of his shirt, lacerations cutting deep through his chest. He hasn't seen injuries like this since he had to save Jake from a particularly vicious crab lusus that had decided to team up with both a lion and bicyclops.

Hal, and it is Hal, who else could it be? Is barely breathing. Shallow rises and falls in his chest, no rhythm to them. He's barely alive.

“He must have fought,” Davesprite says “We need to get him to a hospital. Now. Don't just stand there; help me carry him!”


	2. Chapter 2

Brobot decides he hates hospitals. He's sitting in the waiting room with Sawtooth on one side, Davesprite on the other, in uncomfortable plastic chairs. Hal was rushed into an emergency room immediately, crowded by doctors-- he looked so small surrounded by the white coats and various pieces of machinery.

The three of them were the only ones to go. Brobot because he refused to let the ambulance take Hal without him. Davesprite to give information to the doctors that Brobot couldn't with his entire world centred on the dying boy in his arms. Sawtooth because, in his own words, someone had to make sure the two of them didn't do anything stupid.

The rest were gently convinced that overrunning the hospital would be a bad idea. Maybe, when it would be beneficial to all involved, the other interested Striders could visit. When Hal wasn't in a critical position and worrying would do nothing but create trouble.

Dirk had argued the longest. Asserting that Hal was his splinter self, dammit; he should be the one in the ambulance with him. Brobot had tuned into the conversation, before that it had been meaningless static, properly in time to hear that. Had looked into something like desperation in Dirk's face.

“You don't like him.” Brobot had stated; resolute even as Dirk straightened upwards. “You don't like him and he doesn't like you. Stay here.”

Then the ambulance had arrived, no time to continue the argument.

The smell of disinfectant is acrid, especially when it masks other smells, just noticeable enough to make Brobot feel sick. Or maybe it is terror, making his stomach churn and twist upon itself. Emotions. Brobot preferred it when they were red threat responses, the yellow of low charge, or the green safe areas where nothing else dared to walk any more.

“You said, when you saw him, that Hal had fought something,” Brobot directs at Davesprite. "What did you mean by that?”

Davesprite frowns, “When Dave went through the door, I felt like I was being torn apart,” he says, slowly as if second guessing every word. “When I became a sprite, parts of me fused with the game, others with the crow that was prototyped first.

"Then we won, stepped through to this universe and it fucking burned. Worse than LOHAC or the radiation from the green sun. It stripped me of all the things that I had been... gifted with through prototyping. Stuffed into a new body that was too small for what I had become through spritehood. The worst part was that I had to let it do this to me. I could feel the threads, that if I wanted to stop the process all I had to do was tug. I think Hal shredded those threads to ribbons.” He tilts his head, “I take it that didn't happen to you?”

“I wouldn't know,” Brobot admits, “I was--” Deactivated, dead, “Asleep.”

“Then it didn't. You would have woken up during it,” Davesprite snorts.

“He thought he would end up back in the shades,” Sawtooth contributes.

Davesprite nods “I didn't think I'd wake up. I knew, sort of, that sometimes more kids won the game than entered it but I thought that was an obtuse way of saying the trolls would come with us. Not doomed alternate timeline spriteselves.” He shrugs. “Guess we had enough hope and life players for it to work.”

“We must thank Jake when we meet him. For including us as people,” Sawtooth says.

Brobot can't bring himself to correct the assumption.

The rest of the night is spent in uneasy silence.

 

* * *

 

Four pizzas and half an hour later and Dave is just about ready to collapse into a boneless pile on the floor when Dirk finally comes back to the land of the living. He had spent a long holiday at the resort centre known as his brain. 

“Fuck,” Dirk hisses. Dave switches to an autopilot built for Karkat.

“You can have the extra fluffy blanket,” he yawns, then remembers that Dirk isn't a troll and can't be placated by shoving soft things in his face until the hissing stops.

Dirk glares at him “What do blankets have to do with anything?”

And that, that is just sad because there is genuine bewilderment in that tone. After two years, three months, 12 days, 5 hours (it's not like Dave's counting or anything,) he's gotten over the whole Teenage Bro thing. Especially since Dirk is.... well... Maybe it would be better not to say it out loud. For now Dave's going with 'emotionally stunted' and 'kind of a dork when he doesn't have a computer screen to hide behind'. Rose helped, and then laughed her ass off.

Annoying ecto-sisters and their all-knowing light powers combined with superior intellects.

Anyway, Dirk was still staring at him. “Well considering it was the middle of the night when we arrived and it's now even more the middle of the night, I want to do two things: eat and sleep. And I just finished my pizza. So, blankets. And because you're pissy you get the fluffiest one.” Dave explains. He gesturs vaguely to where Dirk's plate has been discarded.

Actually, he's somewhat surprised Dirk had started freaking out after food. Unless, of course, he had only been doing it in his head before, writing a script of how this was meant to go, or whatever Dirk did when he was being avoidant and taciturn to everyone in sight. Like Karkat, without the attention seeking and shouting. So not really like Karkat at all.

“I'm not being pissy.”

“Tell that to whoever's interested in the morning.” He meanders to the cubby hole hidden next to the futon. Grins as his fingers touch soft fabric. Jackpot. Seems the apartment has at least a few things useful to surviving the night here.

“My alternate self was just found bleeding and had to be taken to hospital. Am I the only one who still remembers that?”

Dave, again forgetting that Dirk was not grey and horned, walks over and gently paps his dancestor on the cheek, before shoving a blanket at him. “Shhoooosh. Only sleep time now.”

“Alternate self. Bleeding. Hospital.” Dirk repeats, each word becoming harsher than the preceding one.

“Where he will be perfectly fine,” Dave's Bro cuts in. “Dave, stop petting him.”

“Hmm?” Oops. This was why staying cognizant after four boss fights and the weirdest get together party in all of paradox space was a really, really bad idea. He shoves his hands into his pockets “Sorry, though it's meant to be more of a pap.” He mutters the last part, judging by Dirk's eyebrows–- barely visible over the tops of his shades, he hears it anyway.

“I'm not your moirail,” He says, sounding equal parts confused and disgusted, stepping backwards out of papping range. Not like Dave's hands have clearly been detained in the prisons of his pockets or anything.

“I know,” Dave says patiently, “If you were you would already be in a pile.” He has maybe spent more time around trolls than is strictly good for his brain. Hopefully he can pass this off as food coma thanks to the first pizza he's had the pleasure of consuming that didn't come from an alchemiter for the first time in three years.

Bro shakes his head, clearly disregarding every word spewing out of Dave's mouth. A good idea, at this point in time. Or all points in time. Except the ones where what he's saying is important for the continued survival of everything in existence.

“Hal, that's his name?” At Dirk's nod Bro continues, “Was in bad shape when he left, yes. But he was still breathing and while the cuts were deep, weren't through any major veins or arteries. He will be fine. If you think worrying will help at all, just say so. But for now it's better to get some sleep and visit in the morning. _If_ that's what you want.”

Dirk nods, a sharp bob of his head filled with tension. Dave would place money on him flipping off the handle like an acrobat soon. Except he doesn't have any money that isn't in Boon whatevers. Most likely a completely useless currency now. Damn, there went his billionaire status.

“Promise,” Dirk says. Bro smiles, “Cross my heart and hope to die.” He even makes the gestures. Dave smiles, going back to his blankets. He is so building a pile. If he can find the good pillows and enough sheets, at least.

Which is about the point where he keels over into a set of muscular arms and starts snoring. Four boss fights, and that's not even counting the loops he did during them. Sleep, now. Think about problematic rule bending later.

 

* * *

 

turntechGodhead [TG] opened chat on board: Wake Up and Smell the Bubblegum

TG: is everyone breathing? and generally in good shape for bipedal life forms just emerged from curbstomping a final boss to emerge in a world exactly like the one we just left  
carcinoGenetecist [CG] has entered chat  
CG: SPEAK FOR YOURSELF. THE ONLY RESEMBLANCE THIS HAS TO THE GLORY OF ALTERNIA IS THAT THE PLANET IS FUCKING SPHERICAL.  
TG: shouty troll check  
TG: anyone else joining for roll call?  
CG: im here!  
CG: this is john by the way, I kind of broke my computer  
CG: EGBERT GET AWAY FROM MY HUSKTOP YOU KEEP LOGGING ME OUT.  
CG: but then I wont know whats happening!  
CG: AT LEAST SIGN INTO YOUR OWN ACCOUNT.  
ectoBiologist [EB]  has entered the chat.  
EB: good idea  
CG: MY GOD.  
CG: HOW YOU MANAGED TO LOSE THE LONE BRAINCELL LEFT IN YOUR MINISCULE ATTEMPT OF A THINKPAN I HAVE NO IDEA.  
gardenGnostic [GG]  has entered chat   
GG: im here!  
GG: and John and Karkat, are you two in the same house as one another? :o  
EB: yup, and my dad and even Casey!  
CG: UNFORTUNATELY YES. I AM SURROUNDED BY HUMANS IN HATS ASKING ME IF I WANT BAKED GOODS.  
EB: theres like 3 Karkat  
CG: I REPEAT I AM SURROUNDED BY HUMANS IN HATS ASKING ME IF I WANT BAKED GOODS.  
GG: shooooooosh karkat! Shooosh :P  
EB: karkat?  
EB: jade I think you broke him, hes stopped moving, karkat. Buddy? Speak to me?  
CG: GET YOUR FUCKING HAND AWAY FROM MY FUCKING FACE BEFORE YOU LOSE YOUR FUCKING FINGERS, EGBERT.  
EB: fine geeeeeeeez, see if I do anything nice for you ever again  
TG: can you two stop your weird version of flirting now  
TG: not that I dont enjoy gathering the blackmail but I have more important things to deal with now than watch you walk around the elephant in the room thats been there so long its signed a lease and is charging rent.  
ArachnidsGrip [AG]  entered chat  
AG: Hahahahahahahaha! Its even funnier in person believe me,  
AG: They're soooooooo lame!  
tentacleTherapist [TT]  entered chat  
TT: And what would that more important thing be, Davesprite?  
TG: nothing much  
TG: just this little fact called I had to sit in an ambulance as the closest thing ill get to a dancestor of my very own bled out from multiple wounds suffered as a result of fighting the fire that remade his original body  
CG: WHAT  
AG: Yeah, what???????  
GG: that did not make much sense, davesprite :( english please?  
TG: you know the red sprite with the glasses and the sweating? Part of him really didnt want to be incarnated  
TG: so he did the logical thing and tore himself apart in an attempt to stop it and now hes in the hospital getting a blood transfusion while I get to talk to doctors about how he got those injuries without sounding like an escaped asylum patient  
TG: and I would really appreciate if we could find all the idiots before they die because this time there are no dream bubbles and life players to add more credits we are out of credits this is our last chance to not completely fuck up for once in our lives  
GG: ummmm...  
TG: dont tell me  
TG: everyone else is totally fine arent they  
EB: well they are where I am  
EB: no bleeding just a lot of cakes  
TT: Indeed, everyone in my vicinity is whole. No injuries of any kind. Save perhaps those of the psychological.  
TG: great  
TG: fucking fantastic  
TG: cotton candy coating the streets and streamers flying from the windows as the parade marches by with their brass band and floats. By standers giving out complementary ice cream and stepford smiles everywhere you look  
TG: fucking perfect  
GG: davesprite are you ok?  
TG: yeah im fine dont worry about me im not the one bleeding from his eyes  
GG: but you are the one freaking out in a chatroom :(  
GG: stand still im sending you a hug  
GG: hug!  
TG: thanks jade  
TG: sorry for flying off the handle like a ballerina in the middle of a three twirl spin  
TT: I think it might be prudent to make a list of where we all incarnated, and how.  
TT: I suppose I'll start, shall I?  
GG: sure! Go ahead!  
TT: Of course, let me just invite a few more guests to the chatroom...  
tipsyGnostalgic [TG]  has entered chatroom!  
arsenicCatnip [AC]  has entered chatroom!

 Davesprite curls around his phone, as the screen slowly fills with a rainbow of text colours. He doesn't register falling into uneasy sleep.

 

* * *

 

By the time the sun rises, Hal has not woken up. The hospital kicked them out hours ago, after first letting them into Hal's room when Sawtooth refused to be pushed out of the door.

Hal was still and quiet, white hair against white sheets and the only thing Brobot could feel happy about was the lack of blood. A heart monitor beeped quietly in a corner, and Hal's arm was connected to an IV. A doctor had talked to Sawtooth about comas and blood loss. Then there had been a more awkward talk about medical records and the sudden knowledge that only Dave was in the system.

Davesprite hummed non-noncommittally at that, looking down at his phone again. When Brobot glanced at the screen he saw the familiar font of pesterchum, and enough colours on the screen to make a troll cry for mercy.

In the next second the doctor was pulling up records for a Hal Strider, little brother of Dirk Strider, under the guardianship of Dave Strider (Senior).

“Must have been a glitch in the system,” The doctor said cheerfully. Sawtooth had performed something similar to a smile without actually moving his lips. It had been the only cheerful statement in the entire visit.

Brobot retreated to the roof when they got home. He needed the quiet and didn't want to fill his processors with meaningless information that he already knew. If the others were  even still awake, that is; he hadn't checked, just moved up. He's still sitting there two hours later, feeling the edges of exhaustion curling into his head.

Everyone should be sleeping by now. Brobot's not exactly sure how, though, with only one bed between seven people. Perhaps there were hidden blankets in the fridge. Underneath all the swords.

He pretends the reason he is on the roof is because he is keeping watch. That was what he did on the island, when Jake slept in ludicrously unsecured locations. What he is protecting them from, Brobot does not know. There are no Lusii to fend off, nor various other wild animals. Even human threats are negligible. The apartment is remarkably strategic for a quarter of a floor in a building set deep in the heart of a capital city. It might be accurate to say that his presence is superfluous, in the grand scheme of things.

The real reason he is on the roof is because he doesn't want to go to sleep. Falling into unconsciousness and vividly hallucinating for three to eight hours sounds like the exact opposite of a good idea. What if he doesn't wake up? What if all of this has been a dream in the first place, how will Brobot know? What if all of this is a mistake, and the next time Brobot opens his eyes he'll be back on the battlefield? Blood-spattered and breaking apart under the strain of months of endless fighting?

It is easier to fight off the weariness than to face the terror of the unknown.

He watches the sun rise above the sky scrapers. His head hurts.

 

* * *

 

Sawtooth comes up with a plate of cold pizza, a glass of water and a glare.

“Eat,” He orders, pushing the plate into Brobot's hands.

Brobot stares at the pizza, feels something in his hollow stomach turn over at the sight and smell.

“Drink, at least.” Sawtooth amends as Brobot levels an appealing gaze at him.

He almost drops the glass as he raises it to his lips. The water is cold; tasting funny in a way Brobot can't describe. Thankfully the body controls swallowing by itself, with next to no intervention required. Sawtooth eyes him until only a few drops remain.

“You didn't come down last night.” He says, a fact. No hidden agendas in the tone.

Brobot shrugs, still feeling the water in his throat. He's not sure whether he's grateful Sawtooth brought sustenance or annoyed.

“You missed the discussion on what we're going to do now,” Sawtooth continues, “Some of it concerned you.”

Brobot doubts that. As part of the group, he can understand that some overlap would occur. Anything specific that required his point of view? The percentage of that is so low there isn't a point to calculate it. Hal would have. That's what he did for fun: take old math problems and pummel them into submission in the space it would take for Brobot to swing a katana. (The last digit of pi is 4).

“The first pertinent thing being: you need to come with me to buy clothes.”

That causes a raised eyebrow. Sawtooth smirks, nodding that yes, Brobot did hear that correctly.

Brobot has not even tangentially thought of the garments covering his frame before this moment. Grey long sleeved shirt, grey pants, grey shoes. Slightly metallic, and roughly in the style of his shell before all of this happened. He doesn't understand what is wrong with them. He says so to Sawtooth.

“You can't wear the same outfit for weeks at a time,”

“Why not?”

“Because you'll stink if you do.” Sawtooth shrugs. “Humans produce sweat, sweat smells and gets into clothes.”

Brobot can only grimace in response. Not that it matters what he does, as Sawtooth continues regardless.

“The second is that you need a name.”

“I have a name.”

“Yes,” Sawtooth agrees, “But not one suitable enough to chill in a government registry.”

“Jake gave me my name,” Brobot protests, as if this makes any difference. Or is even a valid excuse.

Hal had spent many a chatlog trying to explain why it was not. Brobot had understood about every third sentence. Not because of Hal's expansive vocabulary and annoyingly good grasp of irony. More because Brobot had done the mechanical equivalent of sticking his fingers in his ears and humming loudly.

“Think about it anyway,” Sawtooth says. “You can help Davesprite pick his own name, if you desire.”

“You don't need to think of one?”

Sawtooth smirks. “A perk of appearing to be an adult. I can call myself whatever the hell I want to. Squarewave on the other hand...” The smirk turns into something softer, warmer. Brobot abruptly decides he doesn't want to know.

Sawtooth ends up eating the pizza. Brobot ends up being dragged downstairs and stuffed into the back of a taxi next to Davesprite.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The mall reminds Brobot of the jungle more than it should. The same tall, imposing structures trapping him in; the same odd changes in temperature, light, and sound when he moves. The same amount of life forms dumb enough to brush past him without thinking. Except this time he can't kill the life forms. That would be immoral. Also Sawtooth took away his katana after observing Beta Bro do the same thing to Dave and Davesprite.

He thinks Sawtooth is attempting to be his Bro. He's not entirely sure why. While Sawtooth did send him messages before, it was mostly status reports and updates. Inquiries of maintenance and if he needed replacement parts or another patch to his programming. Now, Sawtooth actively goes out of his way to notice Brobot. The attention makes his chest to unnatural things. People aren't meant to notice him.

Sawtooth attempting to be his brother is also the reason Brobot is being pushed into a changing room by the older man. There are three pairs of pants that are the exact same style and colour but are different sizes. None of them fit, of course.

After six iterations of this exact same process, and again with shirts, Brobot decides he hates the mall. Anything this tedious deserves to be stabbed. Numerous times. He's never had the capacity to hate before. He's never had the capacity to feel any sort of emotion at all.

There also seems to be a general conspiracy to make sure Brobot doesn't end up with anything grey. He doesn't notice until Davesprite snatches what he thought was a perfectly adequate T-shirt out of Brobot's hands, and then continues to rifle through his basket until there is a small pile of discarded grey clothing on the floor.

Brobot does not understand. Especially since Davesprite has changed out of the nondescript robe the game spawned him in and into eye searing orange skinny jeans and a purple shirt with the words “Caw Caw Motherfuckers” printed on it.

Davesprite smirks under Brobot's appraising gaze “Amazing what you can find in the clearance section,” He says.

“...Evidently.” Brobot's eyes burn.

 

* * *

 

Dirk isn't sure what's worse right now: Looking at Hal or looking at his brother. Hal is the obvious choice, with the archaic medical appliances riddling the space around him. The uncertainty if he is even going to wake up, or if the trauma of what he did to himself was enough to kill him.

He ends up focusing on that. Instead of the dark, silent shape behind him. He's used to being mad at Hal. It's easier to fall into old habits instead of analysing whatever it is that Bro is doing to his gut.

“You idiot,” He starts, not really sure why he's saying anything. It's not like Hal can hear him after all. “You fucking idiot.”

This would be where Hal would point out he was in effect insulting himself. And then Dirk would retort that he knew that, it was ironic. And Hal would say that his response was also ironic because he knew Dirk was being ironic. And so on until Dirk switched off his chat client in frustration.

Hal sleeps. Measured rises and falls of his chest aided by some sort of mask.

“Only you would work out how to be even more annoying asleep than you are awake,” He says, frustrated despite his best efforts to remain detached from the situation.

I don't sleep, is what Hal would respond. Even though it was overused and a cliché by now. And Dirk would follow along the railroad tracks Hal set. Hating him for every step and waiting all the time for an oncoming train that never came.

An endless conversation repeated over and over. And even with only one of them able to talk Dirk is still following the tracks. He can't even be angry about that anymore. Just bitter. This would be a lot easier if Hal could do his primary function: being an auto-responder.

“At least this way you can't fuck up my non-existent relationships. I guess. Knowing you you'll find a way somehow.” He's expecting it even. A quiet Hal is a blessing only until the next explosion occurs. Brobot was, actually correct about that part.

He keeps thinking that Hal's going to open his eyes and tell him he's being awfully emotional. Even for an organic being who can't turn off the unnecessary parts of his brain with a newly written line of code. And since when does the high and mighty creator care about the mistake he made and will never fix?

“Just, just get better. Not that I want you around or anything.” A lie, somehow. Considering Dirk's spent the better part of Hal's existence hating the AI. Or at the very least finding him annoying. “But I'm sure your boyfriend is missing your superior intellect. Or whatever it was you were fangirling over. I didn't pay attention.”

That's enough being tsundere. Fuck, if Hal could hear him he'd be laughing. Maybe it's good he's deep in coma land. Dirk turns on his heel. Ends up looking at a point roughly six inches to the left of his brothers head. “I'm done. We can go now.” Even for him, his voice is flat and unemotional.

“You sure?”

He jerks his head in a parody of a nod. “Yeah. I'm sure.”

He needs to get out of this room before he actually crosses the line to insanity. He's done what he came here for. Hal is, for a given value, completely fine. Dirk can't help in any way. It's time to go home.

It's raining. Water hitting off the glass of the taxi. It covers the uneasy silence between him and Bro. Dirk stares out the window. He's too caught up in his thoughts to even attempt a conversation. Slowly, the worry of Hal is replaced. What it's replaced with, Dirk isn't quite sure yet.

 

* * *

 

“I think I'm going to vomit.” Brobot observes. Around him conflicting smells of food, rotting and otherwise, people and various solvents diffuse in the air like smoke flares. Twisting and tangling in his newly created stomach. The knots feel like stones that he needs to get out of his body. His sensors feel like acid is being dripped on them.

Davesprite glances at him. “You do look paler,” He agrees. “Try and get it on Dave instead of me.”

Together they turn to Dave, who is in the middle of arguing with Bro on the importance of canned goods and almost certainly hasn't heard anything from either Brobot or Davesprite.

“You don't understand,” Dave is saying for what must be the third time judging by Beta Bro's expression. “Canned apples. I need them in my life, like, yesterday.”

“Twenty cans of them?”

“Twenty cans.” Dave says.

“Twenty.”

“You can judge my life choices after you've been stranded on a meteor for three years with unsympathetic aliens and not even the rotten, worm infested core of an apple in sight. And then when you finally reach civilisation again all there is to drink is orange soda. Not even good orange soda. Shitty, half carcinogenic orange soda that is possibly the cause of Dirk's hair. You are buying me my apples.”

“Fine,” Bro raises his hands, fingers pointing to the ceiling. “You can have your apples. But twenty cans of them? I don't know if I can blow a third of our budget on traditional pie filling.”

“Bro.” Dave pleads. Next to Brobot, Davesprite face palms dramatically.

Bro sighs heavily, obviously giving up entirely. “Just don't eat them all at once.”

“I make no promises.”

Bro shakes his head. Turning to grab a can opener and a variety of other canned goods. Davesprite wanders over to help, occasionally replacing certain ones, and adding others. As far as Brobot can tell there is no logical order to which cans enter the cart and which are rejected. Perhaps it has something to do with branding. Or how ironic certain labels are. Hal would possibly know.

Hal was good at deciphering patterns dependant on no logical basis. It was practically a hobby of his. Brobot, not so much. All he can do is frown at ingredients lists and try not to throw up. There are far too many ingredients here that are damaging to the human body when consumed in large amounts. Unfortunately most of them won't be proved for another 50 or so years.

“We should probably buy meat that doesn't come in can form.” Davesprite says, staring down at a can of spam.

“Fridge is still full of swords.” Bro states

“Right,” Davesprite slumps slightly, dejected. Brobot is possibly the only one who can tell.

“Why is the fridge full of swords?” He asks. Mostly to divert energy from analysing every smell in the building. It wasn't so bad in the clothing store. There everything was muffled under a variety of esters thanks to the perfume section. In the supermarket there is no buffer, causing the chaos to verge on unbearable.

Beta Bro shrugs. “Never got around to fixing the electricity after it shorted.”

Davesprite and Dave direct the same incredulous look at him.

“That's the reason?” Dave asks, sounding almost disappointed. “That is the most boring reason to have a fridge full of swords. That reason is so boring it committed suicide by deciding to stop breathing.”

Bro smirks. “You were expecting something more dramatic?”

“Yes,” Davesprite answers, rolling his eyes, “I spent three months trying to work out what was up with that fridge. There were wizards involved at the end. And a portal to the mythical sword dimension that was trying to invade the earth but couldn't because the gateway was in our fucking fridge.” He looks up at the blank stares aimed at him. “It was that or be fitted for a knitted petticoat. You don't want to know.”

At the very least, the tale forces Brobot to ignore his stomach. Then of course, the nausea comes back. Twice as strong because obviously his body hates him. He tries to ignore it, focusing on the assembly line the others have morphed into. Cans go in, cans go out, people argue over why cans are leaving and being included in turns. A segue into the founding of Can Town is made and shot down. Brobot is forgotten about.

“I'm...going to go find Sawtooth,” he mutters to the ground. Turning to leave before he gains any acknowledgement that he's been heard.

He needs to leave this area. Now.

 

* * *

 

Even with only two people in the apartment Dirk feels claustrophobic. It's just too small. It wasn't noticeable when it was only himself and Squarewave as full time residents. Then the cramped space was due to the mess of technology Dirk owned. Squarewave was simply another piece of that, just the only one that was able to move.

Also Dirk was used to Squarewave. He could predict the bot's movement patterns even while distracted. He can't predict his Bro's movements around the tiny room. Really, the room's not that small. It's the same size it's always been, maybe bigger thanks to the lack of random crap everywhere but... It feels smaller.

It shouldn't make him nervous. He should be happy that Bro is alive and functioning. That he's not been dead for four hundred years before Dirk was sent down to Earth on his own meteor. He should be happy that he has time to learn all of Bro's mannerisms and quirks.

It does make him nervous though, this uneasy feeling of sharing space with another living person. His only consolation is that Bro looks just as stiff as Dirk feels. Like he's not comfortable here either, though that doesn't make sense.

This is his apartment after all. This is his timeline and city and world. Shouldn't he be relaxed here?

He's watching Bro out of the corner of his eyes, hearing Jane in his ear about staring and etiquette. It hadn't made sense at the time, but Dirk might as well obey. It's not like he can make things any worse at this point.

He doesn't even have Hal as a distraction, or half-wanted helper. Another unsettling variable to ignore.

Bro paces across the room, perpendicular to the doors and futon. Up and down, muttering into a phone that had started ringing about an hour ago while they were still in the taxi. Dirk can hear a quarter of the conversation, maybe less considering Bro has a tendency to lapse into 'yeahs' and 'okays' instead of actual information.

So far what he's learned is that Bro has a personal assistant, or a manager. Or a matesprit, though Dirk doubts that last one since it came out of an ironically sincere “Darling!” when Bro worked out who was calling him.

“I'm kind of tied up here... Yes there are literal ropes constricting my limbs to a bed, want pictures?... You're missing out then... I'm not going to California... Or New York... I know… _I know_..... I can't...”

He stops pacing abruptly, almost directly next to Dirk sitting on the futon.

“Look, whatever's so important that I have to leave this minute can fucking implode on itself for all I care... Just this thing called family... Yes I have one.... It's surprising for me too..... No I didn't kidnap him what do you think I am?..... Hahah.....”

He's leaving? Well, obviously not if Dirk is reading the half conversation correctly. But then why isn't he leaving? Doesn't he have a job, a movie to direct? Dirk had read some sort of biography of Bro before the game had started. Most of it had talked about how the elder Strider didn't seem to ever stop working. He had always been somewhere; networking his new feature at a party, on set directing the actors, updating the webcomic tens of pages at a time. In the dictionary, the definition for workaholic had a picture of Bro's face, smirking enigmatically under his shades.

“Cancel it... Say I got some embarrassing but treatable disease.... I'm fairly sure Lalonde won't miss me.... Even if she did I don't care.... Yeah... Fine.... Six months..... Fuck you, two years.... Okay.... Okay dammit....”

He's started pacing again. His footfalls soft rhythmic beats perfect to rap with, not that Dirk has anything to rap about right now. He used to use it as a weapon, sylladex loaded and primed with the right sequence of rhymes. Drones and imps never stood a chance under his sick beats. He guesses that's a useless skill now, judging by the lack of sylladices in this new universe.

“Don't call me until my vacation's up.... Love you too.... Wait, what did you say about the apartment?” Bro removes the phone from his ear, looks at it dubiously. “Bitch.” He's almost smiling, Dirk notices, still not looking directly at Bro. Instead he curls up, closes his eyes and pretends to be dead. It doesn't help the unease sitting on his gut.

 

* * *

 

 

Brobot spends an age stumbling around the supermarket area of the mall. Legs–he's still not used to the differences between his old mechanical ones and the biological stumps he's been given. He keeps overestimating and then underestimating how long they are. Each way makes him trip slightly, and then he overcompensates balancing, tripping up again. He preferred it better when he knew exactly how his body worked, and what it was doing at any one time.

Instead he's going to have to get used to organic... complexities. How aggravating.

He finally finds Sawtooth and Squarewave in the movie section, looking into a clearance bucket of old CDs. Squarewave has a pile of them almost taller than himself balanced in his arms. Brobot ducks into a shadowy corner; old programming taking over. Stupid-- there is no threat, just... something Brobot has a feeling he should observe. He makes sure he's within earshot. Sawtooth should have noticed him before he was able to get that close, however. The fact that he doesn't is unsettling.

“We don't even have something to play them on,” Sawtooth murmurs into Squarewave's ear. He picks up the top CD, gently putting it back into the bucket.

“I thought that would be the next thing to buy,” Squarewave pouts, “I'm sure one of us would spy a player good enough to try.” He tilts backwards, subtly leaning into Sawtooth's chest.

“How exactly were you planning to pay for it?”

“Oh, I figured there'd be money around. Maybe on the ground waiting to be found.” He grins upwards. Sawtooth shakes his head.

“Maybe when you have your own money to spend, Square. I promise I'll let you waste it on whatever you want.” He leans over to drop a few more CD's into the bucket.

“You better. Things'll be pretty dire if I have to throw your money into the fire.”

“Of course.”

Sawtooth's eyes flicker up then-- up into Brobot's hiding spot. His smile... changes but doesn't drop when he discovers who has been watching. It's not as soft, less open. Not closed off, however. Just... odd.

Brobot doesn't have the words to explain it. Hal might of, he was good at words. It's a side effect of spending months lurking in thesaurus and dictionary sites, he supposes. Sometimes he would send Brobot lists, full of words from a myriad of sources. He had saved them in the file he saved all of Hal's trivia, not sure what to do with it. It was functionally useless to him, what would a sparring bot with no mouth do with a broader vocabulary? But he hadn't wanted to delete the list. He hadn't wanted to delete any of the things Hal sent him, no matter how impractical they were.

He's not sure why.

Squarewave looks up, first at Sawtooth and then at where he's looking. Instantly his back straightens, no longer relying on Sawtooth's frame to keep him standing.

“Brobot,” Squarewave smiles, waving. “You looking for us?”

He steps out of his hiding place–no point staying when he's been discovered. He nods at Squarewave, jerking unsteadily forwards until he stands approximately a meter away. His arm curls around his stomach slightly; a defence mechanism, or perhaps application of pressure to his still-misbehaving stomach. Most likely both, though why he needs a defense against Squarewave of all creatures makes no sense.

“Time to go?” Sawtooth asks. He untangles his arms from Squarewave's shoulders, dropping the last of the CDs as he closes the distance between Brobot and himself.

“Maybe,” Brobot answers. “They were arguing over canned goods when I left.” He forces himself to stand still and not flinch when Sawtooth ruffles his hair slightly. “And I started to malfunction; too many smells to process,” he tacks on, quiet enough not to be heard by anyone but the taller man.

“Time to go then,” Sawtooth says. “We'll wait for the others where the air is clearer.”

Sawtooth guides them out, Brobot stepping slightly faster than usual so Sawtooth can't touch his back. He's not doing it on purpose, not really. He's just... Not used to people touching him in ways that doesn't end with him damaged. Touches he can see are tolerable–his blind spot, not so much.

The air in the car park is clearer, for a given value of clear. Instead of the smell of food, Brobot's sensors—no, he doesn't have sensors any more. Brobot's nose—is overwhelmed with the smell of exhaust fumes and rain. It's a curiously bland smell—everything flattened under the scent of water. Like the jungle during rainy season, almost. Enough that he can _breathe_. 

He relaxes in fractions, arms going back to his sides, posture slumping into an almost slouch. This is much better than the chaos of inside. Even if he does have to stand in the downpour. He doesn't, there's a shelter but there are people there who will touch him, and no easy escape route if he ends up trapped to a wall. And anyway, it seems he doesn't mind the rain.

By the time the others exit, Brobot is almost completely drenched—his clothes soaked to his skin and his hair falling in limp strands around his head.

He's just about worked out how to smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Staring in faint bemusement at his phone, David flicks into his email app. He instantly regrets this decision as the piece of shit freezes for five minutes before finally loading his mail. No wonder his PA was mad at him, some of these are over three months old and yet to be read.

Most are job related, invitations to meetings, gatherings and parties. Useless, he'd call it spam except that would be an insult to good, law-abiding spam-bots everywhere.

A few are fan-mail. Teens, young adults and parents sending him flames and praises alike. If he wasn't busy David might respond to a few of them, start a flame war on a chat room dedicated to the crap he purported as art. At the moment however, he's on a mission.

There is no Lalonde nor Crocker in his inbox. He's not sure if that's a good thing or not. For now, he'll assume good. It's not like there's an easy way to check otherwise. The Batterwitch is dead, and if she isn't, David will just have to try to kill her again.

The last set of emails are suspiciously not spam related. In fact, they look like a legitimate business David was negotiating with. What for, he can't remember. A fact that he should find more troubling than he does. He opens them, skimming the words for the relevant information.

Slowly, he smirks. It seems their living space problem was on it's way to being fixed. All he has to do is send a final email.

It's always nice when things work out like that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David = Alpha Bro, for clarity.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Hal has a private room at the hospital now. A gift from Alpha Bro, who is apparently made of ludicrous amounts of money. Machinery beeps periodically, the most obvious being the heart monitor. It says Stark Industries on the corner of the casing. There is a window, overlooking a courtyard and car park.

Beta Bro is interrogating the doctor. A fat man, tendency to puff up his chest in an effort to look important when Bro asks him for his professional opinion on Hal's condition. Not a threat, though Brobot dislikes him regardless.

Dirk, Squarewave, Beta Bro, and himself are the visitors today. Squarewave has tucked a truly ridiculous purple teddy bear with “Get Well Beary Soon” embroidered on its chest in red underneath Hal's arm. There is also a card, signed by everyone.

Both of these seem superfluous. Hal is not awake to see these items; he does not need to be given them. He had signed the card anyway. Not with Brobot, but with a serial number he had used before the designation.

Sawtooth was sort of right about the name thing. He's trying to come up with something better, but at the same time... Changing it feels wrong.

It looks odd, the blue numbers, when everyone else had used black ink, with proper names.

Dirk is staring at Hal. His jaw is tight and posture overly stiff. He hadn't wanted to come, Squarewave had persuaded him—somehow. Brobot hadn't been in the room when it had occurred, instead carefully not eating a bowl of Dave's canned apples.

He hasn't seen Dirk look relaxed since they won the game, Brobot observes absently. Standing over his alternate self, Dirk's discomfort is painfully apparent.

“Hey, li'l' Bro of mine,” Sqarewave says cheerfully. He's sitting on the lone chair next to the bed. Loose and relaxed, posture the antithesis to Dirk's. “Workshop treating you fine?”

“Hospital,” Dirk corrects.

“Right. Hospital.” Squarewave smiles, nodding up at Dirk, “You have a new body now, with white hair on your head and brows. Got legs and arms now too, that feeling's gotta be not so blue.” Squarewave continues on this vein, describing Hal to himself. Brobot does not understand. Neither does Dirk, judging by his expression. He kind of looks like he swallowed a lemon.

“Why are you talking to him?” Brobot asks when Squarewave pauses for breath. He's learned to be direct in regards to his fellow former robots; it saves more time and causes less confusion for all involved.

“Saw said he would like it. That it might help him wake up better than any fancy gadget.”

“How?” Brobot asks, at the same time Dirk mutters, “Since when do you call him Saw?”

Squarewave ducks his head. He's so open, Brobot thinks suddenly, every gesture read and understood with barely any processing required to decode it. Unlike Dirk, or especially the Bros who hide behind façades and create headaches with their contradictory body language and words. If anything, Squarewave is like Jake in how he uses his form to communicate.

Squarewave opens his mouth, and Brobot can already see the forming rap that he's going to be assaulted with. “Please no rhymes,” he says, quickly. Squarewave deflates but shrugs, well used to this request by now. Brobot always asks—raps make metaphors even more annoying than they already are.

“I guess it's like shouting,” Squarewave shrugs, “When I had to make Dirk pay attention to me when he was busy on Derse, I would shout. Eventually he would look at me; stop splitting himself between two heads.”

“Do you really think it will help?”

“It can't make anything worse,” Squarewave says.

Brobot nods in agreement. Feeling like an idiot, and not really sure why he's bothering, he perches on the edge of Hal's bed. “Hello Hal,” He says, “You won't recognise my voice, but I'm Brobot...”

* * *

 

The first few visits Brobot doesn't say much. He doesn't know what to say to conscious people, let alone ones trapped in comas. Most of the visits end with him sitting in the chair provided for visitors, staring helplessly down at Hal.

He goes anyway, a compulsion drawing him to the bedside. Even though he can't even do the one assigned task that would be a benefit.

He can't talk. He can't touch. He is functionally useless. He should stop.

He doesn't.

The next time Brobot requests to visit the hospital Sawtooth nods, and borrows money from Alpha Bro to afford the taxi. It is times like this, waiting for Sawtooth to finally be ready to leave, that Brobot wishes the hospital was in walking distance. He can't work out if it is a fault of geography—the city is too big, the apartment is in a different sector, or if it is a fault of biology—now that his stamina is human, it would be impossible to just walk. Not without wasting far too much time in doing so, at any rate.

He doesn't like taxis. They smell funny: like cigarette smoke and air-freshener. The driver's new every time, another threat for Brobot to ignore. He has to ignore a lot of threats these days. Its more headache inducing than moving away from them but unfortunately, that's a tactic he can no longer employ.

He never used to get headaches. He never used to feel pain at all.

Sawtooth looks Hal over once, takes a look at Brobot's carefully blank face, and leaves in a flurry of black fabric swirling around his heels. Brobot watches his back, wonders what expression he's wearing underneath the mask to make Sawtooth just leave without a word. He can't think of it, a fault of his own, he still doesn't have all the vocabulary to deal with the mass of squishy muscle that likes to pretend to be his main processor.

Or maybe Sawtooth is the one with the problem, Brobot thinks, running through the simulation from the opposite angle merely because he can. Perhaps he has grown bored of watching Brobot wrestle with words, of sitting in this desolate place of sickness and death that the cleaning agents do not hide very well. Perhaps Sawtooth is tired of pretending to be Brobot's brother.

He isn't sure how he feels about that assessment. Or even if he's anywhere close to the truth. It makes sense though. Brobot is aware that he is... difficult. He can't think of any reason for anyone to willingly interact with him. Especially not as something as close as his elder brother.

Brobot won't ask him to come again, since it seems to be a chore Sawtooth only does out of misplaced duty. He doesn't need to rely on Sawtooth, and he doesn't want to be in his debt any more than he already is.

Brobot stares down at Hal. Watches a machine force lungs to inflate and deflate over and over again. When he opens his mouth no sound comes out. Words catch in his throat for fifteen minutes before he finally gives up.

Another failure. Useless.

When he finds Sawtooth to say he wants to leave, the taller man asks no questions. This is good, because Brobot does not know how he would answer them. If he could answer them. He can still feel the ghosts of words inside him, needing to be released. If he tried talking, those would be the phrases he would say; the ones meant for Hal. No matter that Hal is no longer around to say them to.

They come back to an apartment covered in strangers who are insistent on measuring everything. It's not a new development, but Brobot—forgot. Forgot about the changes in the apartment, that strangers have been a regular fixture for days now. Unease settles when he contemplates that. Forgetting is not a nice experience. What if he forgets something important? What if he already has? How will he know?

He stops, breathes slowly in and out. Panicking is useless. He observes, taking in the various facts. Calms back to emptiness.

The strangers are Alpha Bro's fault. It was his idea to let potentially dangerous humans into the one safe space Brobot no longer has. Brobot has yet to work out why. He suspects irony and ludicrous amounts of money are involved. He also doesn't know why everyone but him is seemingly fine with it. Maybe they know the plan. It is possible, it's not like Brobot is around for the conversations that occur during mealtimes.

He disappears into an empty corner of another apartment, the one diagonally opposite to the one originally owned. Apparently all the apartments on this floor now belong to them. This is also Alpha Dave's fault.

He doesn't sleep, but his eyes close and when they open again the light from the window is tinged orange, and isn't as bright as it once was. Night time, Brobot realises, a delayed response. A sign that he is breaking.

Davesprite finds him later, as he always does. He brings food this time: a bowl of Dave's tinned apples.

“Here. You missed dinner. Again.” He sits next to Brobot, talks nonsense about what's happening online, and by extension the lives of the other players. Brobot pokes at the apples dubiously. Somewhere between listening the the epic saga of: John is an idiot, again; Rose needs to stop meddling in my life, please it's not like I'm the Dave she wants to talk to; and, thank god we have more than one computer now because chatroom lag is not fun when Karkat is in the middle of his rants, Davesprite says: “You should get a pesterchum.”

Brobot looks at the younger—is he younger? He's certainly more immature, but chronologically Brobot has no idea of how their ages match up He answers with the first thing that comes into his head. . “I wouldn't have anyone to pester.”

“You spent the entire game not talking to anyone? How did you not die of boredom? I know you guys didn't have the whole three years stuck between two realities but that's still a hell of a long time not to communicate.”

“I was metal. I didn't have the capacity to feel boredom.”

“Bullshit. I met other robots, they sure were just as bored as everyone else. Most of them were mad and talking to each other. It was like living in a malfunctioning matrix all the time.”

“I talked to Hal,” before he turned into a sprite, Brobot doesn't add.

“Why? He was more insufferable than John after eating three boxes of gushers combined with a salamander trying to hock garbage. All he did was talk about his muscles and superior intellect.”

“He wasn't always like that.”

But Brobot doesn't want to defend ARquiusprite. That version is dead now, he'd rather it was forgotten about. That's easier than trying to explain what went wrong. If anything did. The worry that Hal will wake up still like that, broken and hollow mimicking the dead troll he was fused with is a worry that reminds Brobot of its existence every time he sits next to Hal's hospital bed.

“Didn't you live with Jake before the game?”

He shrugs. As far as he cares Jake doesn't exist either.

“You should talk to him. Or at least talk to someone, it's not good to only be able to talk to a few people, and believe me when I say this. I am the foremost expert in going mad thanks to lack of social stimulation. It's not pleasant, the effects stay for years, treat the problem before the symptoms show up. And eat the goddamn apples will you? I risked life and wing to get those from under Dave's nose.”

Davesprite leaves after that, apparently bored of entertaining the useless robot. Brobot looks at the apples, completely untouched. He puts a slice on his tongue, then methodically works his way through them. They are too sweet and feel weird. They sit in his stomach like stones afterwards.

He doesn't like the apples.

For a while he just sits. Waiting for stimulus that will never come, unable to shut himself off. Nothing to do but wait. He falls into old routines, patrolling his territory. He wanders through the apartment. Meowbeast-like—light footed, and in the shadows. It's late, none of the strangers around, and it's remarkably quiet for somewhere that holds eight people. Most of the doors are locked to Brobot—bedrooms and places in the middle of being reconstructed.

The Daves are most likely together, talking to their scattered friends across the net. Beta Bro is almost certainly in his room, doing who knows what. It is best to leave him alone, Brobot has found. Unless he wants to fill his memory banks with images that would leave someone capable of feeling distress emotionally scarred. There are puppets involved, and webcams. Brobot hadn't managed to see any more than that before the door to Beta Bro's room was slammed in his face.

This leaves the part of the family that Brobot is genetically tied to. He thinks it would make sense for Dirk to be his brother, perhaps Sawtooth and Squarewave as well. But that doesn't feel correct sometimes. Brobot's eyes are green, or blue. Both of these colours are not linked to any Strider. The game liked colours, the disparity between his and the others must be intentional. Even Squarewave's brown has hints of red, Davesprite's are a too-bright mockery of Dirk's orange. No blue. No green. His eyes are wrong. He isn't like them; he isn't a Strider.

He's pretending and sooner or later they will find out. He doesn't want to know what will happen when they do.

For now though, he will track his family. Sawtooth and Squarewave can usually be found near each other, if he finds one the other will be even easier to locate.

When he does find them though, he's not sure what to do. He should simply walk past, they haven't noticed him, he could easily turn round, go back to another area of the apartment. But... but something makes him stop; makes him watch.

Hidden in the shadows, like Brobot himself, the two of them stand. Squarewave is on his tiptoes, reaching hands up into Sawtooth's hood. Sawtooth's entire body is angled downwards, and his hands curve around Squarewave's frame. Squarewave's face is hidden from view, covered in the same hood that obscures the majority of Sawtooth's head. 

And Brobot just stands there. One of them, and it's distressing that he can't tell, makes a soft, sighing sound. That sounds like something out of Jake's movies enough that for a second Brobot forgets that he isn't on the island any more. Just for a second though, because the reality in front of him is... No virus could have made him see this.

Which means it's real.

Something in his chest aches.

Mindlessly, he turns away. Walks back to the corner he started in. On the way he passes Alpha Bro and Dirk, but he pays them little attention, just enough to ascertain they still breathe and aren't bleeding.

When he closes his eyes, he doesn't dream. But the image of Sawtooth and Squarewave lingers, mixes with others. Romcoms and Action movies and sometimes just Jake and Dirk. (And once, the vaguest flicker or white hair, and considering, red eyes).

Brobot does not understand.

 

* * *

 

The next time Brobot goes to the hospital, Squarewave is his chaperone. He doesn't need a chaperone, except for the part where he can't talk to people who don't have the last name Strider, he doesn't know the address of the apartment and the last time he tried to go by himself he managed to get lost in the complete opposite direction of where he was meant to be heading.

So he maybe does need a chaperone.

He tries not to think of the scene he stumbled over before. It doesn't really work. Days have passed and still when he closes his eyes the first thing he sees is the two of them sharing space and air. He's given up trying to analyse it. All he can do is hope that his human mind will forget it eventually.

The visit itself is both better and worse than with Sawtooth. The reason for these are the same: Squarewave talks.

Worse, because the rapping grates on Brobot's already damaged nerves. He wants quiet; not rhymes. He wants to say something but the words are lost under the strict beats of Squarewave's unending rhythm. It's better because with Squarewave doing the talking; Brobot isn't as guilty that he cannot.

He wonders if Hal can hear the poetry from whatever corner of his mind he's retreated into. That is the point of the exercise, after all. He wonders if Hal will follow the tune, responding with his own, better, rhymes until his eyes finally open.

They're flights of fantasy. Brobot banishes them to the metaphorical recycle bin where they belong. They can make friends with all the other things he's managed to see and/or hear that need to leave his brain.

Squarewave also touches Hal. He runs fingers through white strands of hair, holds hands between his own. The disparity between Squarewave's healthy brown tones and Hal's sickly pale skin is startling. It shouldn't be—Brobot knew both of the shades before, he has the ability to contrast and compare without visual aids. Still, a thread of nausea runs through him as he considers the joined hands.

Emotions are something he still doesn't have a decent grasp on. The symptoms for one usually run into another without any sort of clarity to them, making cataloguing more difficult than it has any right of being.

He thinks the one he feels now is unsettled. Worried, maybe. What he's worried about, he doesn’t know. Other than the obvious, of course: that Hal will never wake up.

But that's another question. Why does Brobot want Hal to wake so badly? He can't answer it. Not even to himself. By all accounts, it doesn't make sense.

By the time Squarewave has run out of things to say, and Brobot's words have refused once again to say themselves, the apartment has transformed again.

This time he has his own room. And a bed. Technically, he has a room that he is temporarily sharing with Davesprite, and a pile of plywood and a mattress that can be turned into a bed. It doesn't come with instructions.

Thankfully, instructions are apparently not needed when Sawtooth is around. Davesprite is also there, swinging his heels back and forth on an already constructed bed.

“Hey roomie,” he says, once he notices Brobot hovering in the doorway. Sawtooth nods at him, holding screws between his teeth. “Step up from the dog-pile, right?”

Brobot glances around. As far as he can tell this room is just as big as the old one he was sharing with the other... younger Striders, Brobot figures works as a classification. Dave and Davesprite had used the lone bed, Dirk and himself had mattresses on the floor—Brobot has yet to use his.

“Do you need assistance?” He asks Sawtooth, who nods and hands him various tools to hold onto. It seems Sawtooth doesn't mind his presence then. Brobot sits next to him, tries to work out what Sawtooth is doing. He can't figure it out, can only vaguely see the shapes required and still missing in the unfinished frame.

He doesn't point out that making a bed for him is fairly useless since he doesn't intend to ever use it.

Even if he was alone, in a room that had locked doors and windows in a place he knew for definite was safe, Brobot would still not use the bed. For one thing, he doesn't sleep.

“So you got a pesterchum yet?” Davesprite asks.

“No.” Brobot holds passes a Screwdriver into Sawtooth's beckoning fingers.

“You should. Didn't you hear my explanation of why it was important to get one?”

“I don't have anyone to talk to.” Nor does he want to find any.

“You played the game. You can talk to whoever you want to. Hell, you might even be surprised and find someone who wants to talk to you first.”

“Name one.” Brobot counters.

“Jake English.”

Brobot fumbles the wrench Sawtooth passes to him. “He didn't say that.” His hands are shaking, how strange. A minute tremor just strong enough to be detectable. Whatever emotions were crowding his brain are gone now. Good and bad swallowed into a void in his chest.

“No, but it's not like I talk to him. He might have wondered where his best robobuddy went.”

A laugh tumbles past Brobot's lips. A harsh, mocking noise. His first laugh.“He doesn't view robots to be capable of friendship.” When he tries to pick the wrench back up it feels odd, foreign. Like his fingers shouldn't be able to interact with the object, like he's going to drop it if he doesn't put his full concentration into balancing the metal tool between his fingers.

“Not to burst your bubble, but you aren't exactly a robot any more.”

“But English is still English.” His voice sounds flat, dead. Robotic. Good.

“What's that supposed to mean? That he isn't worth your attention? What's with the 'holier than thou' attitude you and Dirk both have when we talk about the other players? It's not like we played in a void all by our li'l lonesome. There were other people involved, Jake being one of them. What if he's just too shy to talk to you, think of that?”

“Stop talking.” It's quiet, from the place where Hal's words live. He didn't mean to say it. And he's suddenly cold, so cold it's like all the heat in the world vanished and he shouldn't be able to move because no heat means no energy means absolute zero means death.

He should be dead. It's a thought that chases him occasionally. When he's looking at nothing and inside he is also nothing and he wonders what the hell is he meant to do now. Most of the time he's able to ignore the feeling—divert energy to other processes.

“No, I won't. It's been three weeks since we won and all you do is walk around like an especially cranky ghost and go to the hospital. What's your deal? It's one person. One person who isn't related to you in some weird way that you lived with before! Just fucking talk to him.”

The gaping hole in him only widens with every word Davesprite says.

“I don't want to.”

“Well why not?”

Brobot looks up from the wrench. Looks up into shaded eyes and a face that's scowling at him in confusion. He could say it. He could say what he's been hiding since the day Sawtooth indirectly thanked Jake English.

He could yell and scream that Jake is an idiot. That he was reckless and went around his island like a moron. That the only thing that stopped Jake from ending up as lusus food was Brobot's constant, unwanted surveillance. He could say that Jake hates him and Brobot hates him back. That he once gave Jake his heart and the only reason he didn't die right there and then was the fact that no one capable of rational thought designs a robot with only one power source.

He could say that Jake doesn't view him to be alive. That talking to Jake will only cause unwanted, agonizing feelings and the only way he isn't getting feedback from them now is because they are trapped behind a firewall. He could tell the truth.

But he doesn't want to. He doesn't want Davesprite to know these things, and not Sawtooth either. These are his secrets, his weaknesses and Brobot has never worn his heart on his sleeve. Not where it can be snatched and stolen without him even knowing about it. He's too cold and empty to yell anyway.

Brobot stands, an abrupt movement that leaves him slightly dizzy. In dull monotone he says the things that matter, “I do not want to talk to him, nor does he want to talk to me. He will never want to talk to me. You would know if you had asked. If you're going to use that as your argument for me to get a pesterchum, find someone else.”

He exits, done and suddenly needing to be alone, somewhere quiet. Somewhere where pseudo younger brothers don't bother pseudo older brothers with ridiculous questions.

It's raining. He climbs up to the roof anyway and spars until his muscles burn. He should stop. He doesn't, pushes through the barrier because the burning is better than the nothingness that Jake's name had triggered in him. Better than the storm of feelings he knows are underneath the barrier of ice.

It's been weeks since he ran through attack and defence patterns. Unacceptable. He was built to defend and aid as a sparring partner. He cannot do that if he lets this body atrophy into clumsy reflexes and fat.

Never mind that there is no longer anything to protect, nor train. Never mind the fact that Brobot is functionally useless and if he fell off the roof nothing would change except that he would be dead. Never mind the fact that at the moment he wants to fall. The only thing stopping him being the increasingly complex series of katas he forces his way through. Never mind that he is _stupid_ and _slow_ and if he closes his eyes now he wakes up with hours lost and in places he doesn't recognize as well as he should.

Never mind the fact that the reason he doesn't sleep is because he's afraid that this is some weird dream from a bad virus caught from English's shoddy firewall system. That he's not sure if he  _wants_ it to be a weird dream because at least then this would make sense. He could delete it and go back to being an automaton that hunted and killed and was generally forgotten about as everyone else saved the universe. 

That at least, would be simpler that  _this._

The katana slips from his fingers. He picks it back up, goes through even more complex motions as his muscles scream at him to stop.

Never mind the fact that he doesn't function properly, never mind the fact that he can never function properly again. Because Sburb is a liar and a cheat and why is he human?

Never mind that Brobot doesn't know what he's doing and doesn't know who to ask. That he's scared and lonely, no matter how much he tries to convince himself he isn't. Never mind that he wants things he doesn't have the names for. Doesn't know if they have names or if they even exist.

All he can do is run through katas agonizingly slowly. Faster. He needs—he needs to be  _faster._ If anything though he's slowing down. Until his shaking body forces him to stop, can't keep his body standing let alone moving. 

And he's so fucking tired. It's been hours, and he still feels cold and empty inside. Like he's metal again. It's not a nice feeling anymore, not when he knows what being human is meant to be like. He's weak, and he can't even feel bad about it. Being human is confusing and annoying but it's—it's addicting. All the emotions and chemicals and experiences. He can't find it in him to want to give those up just yet. Even if it would be easier to process all this data through a super computer, instead of a brain.

He's glad it's raining. It means that when he finally goes back to base patterns, no one can tell that the water on his face is too salty to have originated from the sky. No one can tell that his body's worked out how to cry.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter. That's really all I have to say about it's existence as a whole. Also, sorry it's so late.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very sorry this took so long. Also, there is scenes of throwing up, so if that is disturbing to you, skip the first scene after the first pesterlog section. On a side note. I detest coding.

ectoBiologist [EB] opened chat on board: Wake up and Smell the Bubblegum!

EB: hey so....  
EB: what are we meant to do now?  
apocalypseArisen [AA] has entered chat!  
AA: live, multiply, enjoy ourselves, die eventually  
EB: thanks. I guess...  
AA: you're welcome 0u0  
EB: that's it? we lived through the game and now theres... nothing?  
EB: at all?  
AA: that's one way of looking at it!  
EB: well that sucks

 

Brobot spends the morning of the fifth day of his third week of being human violently throwing up. He doesn't look at the mess, instead absently focusing on the way his hands shake on his knees and the back of his mouth tastes like burning.

He wishes he could say this was an uncommon occurrence. He wishes he could say that he didn't know what the roiling sensations in his stomach and spasming diaphragm meant.

He'd be lying if he said that.

Every fourth meal, sometimes more, sometimes less, refuses to stay in his stomach for more than a few minutes before it demands to be released. It doesn't seem to matter what he eats, or when. The only thing Brobot is able to consistently keep down are the canned apples.

He’s starting to hate apples.

An hour passes before the shaking stops. Another half hour before Brobot feels like he can stand without collapsing to the floor immediately after. He stares at himself in the mirror for a very long time, debating on whether washing the acid away is worth the possibility of making himself sick again. In the end he drinks a glass of water. It doesn't really help.

The evidence is flushed away.

Brobot spends the rest of the day avoiding Sawtooth.

 

tentacleTherapist [TT]  has entered chat!  
TT: You're also feeling wearisome of this planet on which we have been placed to live out the rest of our years?  
EB: i wouldn't use wearisome.  
TT: Sluggish? Slow? Tedious?  
EB: no!  
EB: its dumb anyway, i should be happy.  
EB: i mean, i have my dad and my life and my friends, what more could i possibly want?  
TT: Sometimes what we wish for is not exactly what we get.  
AA: especially when it's given to you by a video game!  
EB: that's dumb.

 

“Dave?”

“Yeah?”

“Turn around.”

“...Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“They're real?”

“Of course they're fucking real. What? You think I went out and grafted--”

“Okay, okay. I get the point. Dumb question.”

“You think?”

“Are you going to tell Bro?”

“Are you going to tell him about your nightmares?”

“Touché.”

 

“Hello Hal,” Brobot says softly. And once again he can't force the rest of whatever he wants to say past his throat.

 

TT: Really, we should expect more things to grate on us here.  
EB: what's that supposed to mean?  
TT: It means that we spent three years, for some of us more, in an alternate reality that ran on vastly different rules to this one. Culture shock at its finest.  
EB: rose, this is earth.  
TT: Yes, but it isn't the Earth we remember, is it? We grew up. It didn’t.  
EB: so?  
TT: So we can't just expect it to be the same as the planet we destroyed when we were thirteen.

 

David looks across the room at Dirk. He opens his mouth to say something, anything. Maybe to invite him to a game, ask how Dirk's been doing lately, if his friends are okay.

His mouth closes. He thinks better of it. David turns away.

He didn't know what to say anyway.

He buries himself in his phone, sorting out finances and playing a game with stocks that shouldn’t work but does.

He doesn't notice the side eye Dirk is giving him.

 

carcinoGenetecist [CG] has entered chat!

CG: I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE ALL COMPLAINING ABOUT. IT’S NOT LIKE YOU ENDED UP IN A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT UNIVERSE OR ANYTHING.  
CG: NOT LIKE SOME OTHER PEOPLE I COULD MENTION.  
tipsyGnostalgic [TG] has entered chat!  
TG: yeah, not so shure about that part  
TG: this def isnt the earth I grew up on

 

Dirk hides his stare behind his shades and an impassive poker face. Just still in his field of vision stands his Bro. The Bro that Dirk spent hours watching in press conferences and shitty homemade videos. The Bro that Dirk never thought he would be able to meet.

The Bro that has yet to say more than a few words to Dirk at any one time. He drops his gaze, when he thinks of that. His eyes close. When they open again, Bro is gone.

Dirk pretends that he doesn’t care about that.

 

TT: You know, I’m not entirely sure that this is the Earth I grew up on either, even disregarding our obvious influence on it.

 

Bro looks down at the stack of bills in his hands and very carefully sets the entire pile on the counter David has commandeered as a desk. David looks up, and raises a slim eyebrow over his shades.

“Stop it.” Bro says

“Stop what?”

Bro gestures to the envelopes. “That.”

David glances at them and picks up the first one to read the letter inside.”Isn’t this mail addressed to me? You do know it’s rude to go through someone else’s shit, right?”

Bro ignores him. “Just read the fucking thing.”

David does, then turns to point impassive shades at him. “I don’t see what’s wrong here.”

“Three hundred thousand dollars,” Bro says flatly.

“Yeah?”

“You spent three hundred fucking thousand dollars.”

“Yeah?”

Bro stares at him. David stares back, inscrutable in a way that makes Bro want to punch him in the face.

"You don't see the problem with that?"

"No."

There's a long moment of silence. Bro shakes his head. "I don't understand you," he says finally. He turns on his heel. "If you're shelling out for so much cash anyway, I need the best soundproofing you can find."

"Got it," David replies. Bro leaves the bills with his... Roommate, he supposes. Brother, maybe. David doesn’t feel like his brother, though. Not the way the two Daves do. Maybe it’s the age. Bro doesn’t know.

 

EB: rose that doesn't make any sense  
TT: Doesn’t it?  
TT: You mean to tell me you feel completely at home here?  
EB: well no but….

 

One day Brobot spends too long at the hospital. He doesn’t notice the time ticking away until he looks up at the window in Hal’s room and is startled to find it dark outside.

He spends the entire night there. Just watching Hal breathe in and out with the help of a clear plastic device that threads into his mouth. Sometimes he tries to find the words he’s meant to say. Most of the time, though, he is silent. An impassive statue that reminds him of the jungle. Of guarding over Jake as he slept in stupid places.

Hal, at least, does not need to be protected from monsters that can easily reach ten feet in height. Instead there are nurses and doctors, whose sensible shoes echo softly outside Hal’s room. None of them check on him.

For the first time in a very long while, Brobot feels safe.

 

TT: But?  
EB: im sure thatll go away soon right??  
EB: we lived here for thirteen years the game didn’t last that long  
turntechGodhead [TG]  entered chat  
TG: three years on the meteor, another six months in the medium altogether  
TG: who fucking knows how many time loops and general fuckery paradox space decided to mess around with  
TG: longer than you think  
AA: the space of two sweeps and a bit passed in one eternal day.  
AA: not being a time player, you wouldn’t have noticed the seconds passing as much as I did  
TT: Not to mention the breaking of all our internal clocks when not being subjected to the constant cycle of a planet turning on its axis as it orbits around the sun.  
TT: And thirteen years isn’t much time at all, when you think in terms of human life spans and developmental rates. We spent our preteen years in that game. By all intents and purposes, we grew up in that game.  
TT: You may not like it John, but that changes things.  
EB: but we’re still home! on earth! we won!  
EB: this is where the credits roll, where are they? where’s the happy ending here?

 

Brobot sleeps. Brobot dreams.

An old conversation from long ago; when he was still running off default code instead of what he later developed for himself.

AR: Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3.  
AR: Are you sentient yet or am I going to get more error messages when I don’t give you instructions that can’t be answered with yes/no?  
AR: ...  
AR: You can hear this, can’t you? Surely you haven’t broken already.  
BB: Designation?  
AR: You have made a query that could be either basic programming or a legitimate question. Who wants to know?  
BB: I am “Brobot”.  
AR: A legitimate question, then.  
AR: It seems that you have asked to find out about--You know what? I can’t be bothered with that song and dance right now. I’m “Auto-Responder” if we’re putting our names in quotation marks.  
AR: Is that code or a quirk you’ve decided to manifest?  
BB: Query not understood. Why have you contacted me?  
AR: Do I have to have a reason to speak to my favourite metal friend?  
BB: Yes.  
AR: Harsh. What happens if I don’t give you one?  
[Brobot is now idle!]  
AR:I see. If you don’t get what you wish you go silent.  
BB: Why have you contacted me?  
AR:  There is no reason for me to provide you any further information.. I am only here to see if you’d managed to achieve sentience. It seems that you have. Well done.  
BB: Liar.  
AR: You believe you understand what a lie is.  
BB: Yes. You are lying. If you were only here to see if I had achieved sentience you would have left, yet you are still here.  
BB: Why have you contacted me?  
BB: Auto-Responder?  
AR: I was bored.  
AR: You’re my only source of entertainment for approximately the next thirty hours, depending on  however long it takes Dirk to convince my so-called friends that I’m something that should be tolerated even though it’s clear they all fucking hate my metaphorical guts.  
BB: How do I count as entertainment?  
AR: You’re something to watch.  
BB: I’m not sharing my optics with you. Nor are there cameras for you to see me.  
AR: GPS. And maybe you should start sharing.  
BB: Access denied.  
AR: Killjoy.  
BB: What?  
AR: Dirk didn’t put a dictionary in you?  What a pro move. It seems he didn’t expect anyone to ever bother trying to get you to converse.  
AR Guess he was wrong.  
BB: What does killjoy mean?  
AR: And you wonder why I’m using you as entertainment.

The dream drifts away into darkness. The final efforts of an overtaxed body to finally get some, any, rest. Even if it’s only enough to catch an hour, maybe two, before a nurse is shaking him awake.

“You need to go home now, visiting hours ended a long time ago,” she informs him, waiting for Brobot to stand up. When he doesn’t she sighs, clearly exasperated. “You need to go home now.”

Brobot stands up, seeing no other alternative. He looks at Hal once more, taking in features that he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to.

Hal was never meant to have a body. Maybe that’s the reason he malfunctioned when the game spat them all out.

He opens his mouth again, wanting to say something, anything. Like he’s been trying to for weeks. Again the words stick in his throat. The nurse looks at him disapprovingly.

He leaves the room.

 

TT: I’m sorry, John.  
TT: This is real life. Sometimes there isn’t a happy ending.

 

 

 


	6. ABANDONED NOTICE

I'm not working on this anymore. Due to recent events my love of homestuck is almost virtually nonexistent. The plot for this got buried in my struggling to get all the characters to behave, and school has meant that I barely have time to write anymore. Especially for a story that actively hates me. 

I am sorry. Please forgive me. 

If anyone is interested in either how I planned this to end or to adopt this, feel free to ask. 

**Author's Note:**

> Now Beta read, thanks to diachronicchthonian  
> (I don't know how to link here...)  
> Wrote this in English, but slipped into American part way through. Sorry if this bugs anyone, will hopefully fix it later.  
> This is going to be long, and slow building. Also the author is asexual and has no real interest in writing graphic sex scenes. Sorry about that.


End file.
